You ride upon my hat
to the ringside seat
because you’re feeling flat
yet you still crave meat.
You are simply a dream
like a ticket unsold
but like scum or cream
your manner is bold.
So when I cast you off
or knock you out cold
you stare back like a toff
and you’ll not be told.
You catalogue claims like a hieroglyph.
You clog up my drains like the side of a cliff.
You hide in my mirrors and you steal
the joke of what it is I feel.
One day I hope you will crash in the fog
You miserable overweaning hat hog.